


and all he has given me he takes back

by verity



Series: someone on the dancefloor, waiting just for you [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Dom/sub, Established Relationship, M/M, Riding Crops, Spanking, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/verity
Summary: That's the point of the instructions: Yuri doesn't have to obey any of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Ashe as always.
> 
> title from D. A. Powell's "when he comes he is neither sun nor shade: a china doll."

For once, he's lying on his own bed; his head rests on his own pillow, which was cool when he laid down, the cotton crisp against his rough cheek. The door is unlocked as instructed. He stretches his fingers into the space between the metal bars of the headboard and lets his knuckles brush the wall. Beneath the matte paint, the plaster has a slight texture. He rubs the pad of his thumb against it, then stills. His thigh is already starting to cramp and he's too far up on the mattress, but once in place, he's not supposed to move. This is also part of the instructions. 

Goosebumps rise on his skin. He should have turned up the heat, but he wasn't—he wasn't _thinking_. That's why he has the instructions. Even this part—the waiting, lying in half-darkness. The only light on is the one in the bathroom, which streams mutedly into the hall and the narrow nave of the apartment. Up in the loft, it's only visible as rays glancing off the window panes on the far wall. He loves waiting. He loves—

Time passes. It's dark outside; it could be hours, minutes. The windows betray nothing. His arms ache with the stretch. He closes his eyes.

He's half asleep when the door swings open on its noisy hinges. For a moment, he thrills with fear. It could be anyone. It could be anyone coming to take him. The door shuts, is shut. Is latched—and there's a clink of chain. Then familiar footsteps tread closer, towards the stairs. He relaxes, a whole body shudder. It's him. 

It's Otabek.

* * *

Otabek doesn't speak. He stands beside the bed for a long moment before he touches the curve of Yuri's bicep, then covers him with a sheet. Yuri doesn't open his eyes. Otabek's footsteps trail away, softening as he retreats down the stairs. The faucet runs for a moment. Glass chimes. Yuri imagines the sinuous line of Otabek's throat as he drinks. His arms are sore. He wants—

That's the point of the instructions. The unlocked door, the waiting, the long arc of his body against the sheets. Yuri doesn't have to obey any of them. Yet each time he opens himself to Otabek, fully, recklessly. Otabek doesn't even have to touch him to render him helpless and wanting. 

Yuri exhales, long and shuddering, and warm fingers trace the line of his jaw. "Sit up," says Otabek. "Drink." Yuri's arms tremble as he pushes himself upright. He opens his eyes and Otabek holds out the water bottle, tips the spout between Yuri's lips and pours like he's offering communion. Water spills from Yuri's lips as he swallows. Otabek catches the excess beneath Yuri's chin with a cupped hand, but some splashes onto Yuri's bare chest. When Otabek takes away the bottle, he holds out his hand. "Finish it." And Yuri laps the water from Otabek's palm, tongue scraping against Otabek's calloused skin.

Otabek wipes his hand dry on Yuri's sheet, and then he's rubbing Yuri's sore arms with precision. No point, after weeks of anticipation, in ending this before it starts. Yuri's cheeks flush. He's naked and Otabek is still dressed, the smooth sleeves of his leather jacket brushing against Yuri's arms and chest. Only now does he feel embarrassed, angry, to be so undone. 

Otabek used to pretend not to notice. Now, he says, "Look at me," and Yuri does. He can barely make out Otabek's face in the dim light. "You're so strong." Otabek lifts one of Yuri's hands and presses it to the fly of his pants. He's hard enough that Yuri's own cock jumps to attention. "No one else could do what you do to me."

"Yes," says Yuri. "Beka, yes—" and Otabek covers Yuri's mouth with his hand like a kiss.

* * *

Yuri has a baoding ball to hold that rings if he drops it. Otabek presses it into Yuri's fingers before he puts Yuri face-down to the bed in fur-lined leather cuffs. The position is more comfortable than the one Yuri gave himself earlier; he can stretch and wriggle if he wants. He squirms against the sheets now, trying to get some friction against his cock, but Otabek's hand on his thigh stops him. "Did I say you could do that?"

"No," Yuri says.

Otabek pulls away entirely for a minute, leaving one of Yuri's ankles only half-restrained, the chain attached to the cuff trailing aimlessly off the mattress. "Are you sorry?"

" _No_ —" and Otabek's hand cracks across Yuri's thigh, nails scraping against his balls. Yuri's come like this before, just grinding helplessly against the mattress while Otabek spanked him over and over with the flat of his palm, half the strikes missing. So eager. They've had to train themselves into patience. 

"If you come now," Otabek says, "You'll have to lie in it. You'll be filthy with it all night. I won't let you wash." His other hand is in Yuri's hair—clipped short, now—twisting against Yuri's scalp, against the memory of the length there. Yuri pants while Otabek's hand drifts down his back, across his cheeks—down to where Yuri's already prepared himself. One of Otabek's fingers slips inside him, just to the knuckle. 

Yuri can't speak. He swallows, throat bobbing. How does Otabek manage to sound so cool, unmoved? 

Otabek slides another finger inside Yuri. "I'll make a mess of you."

Abruptly, there's a tug at his free ankle, and Yuri has to fold his knee up against his chest as his ankle is drawn in, so he's half-slumped on the bed, Otabek's fingers still moving inside him, glancing off the spot that feels the best. When the line on his ankle goes slack, Yuri pushes back onto Otabek's fingers, trying to get a better angle, but Otabek dodges him, twisting away, pulling back. He's breathing hard now, too. Yuri feels like he's on fire, mindless with it. He moans and shakes and it _hurts_ , like he'd come in a second if only Otabek would properly touch him. 

Instead, Otabek withdraws all together, and there's a hot spray across Yuri's thighs.

" _No_ ," Yuri says, and fuck, fuck, his eyes are hot with tears. "No, I want—"

Otabek exhales. "Said I'd make a mess," he says. "Didn't say you could come."

* * *

Otabek puts Yuri on his knees after that and rubs him down briskly with oil. Yuri stays crouched over, like an animal, hands extended over his head, cock hanging untouched between his thighs. What miserable ecstasy. Light flickers in Yuri's peripheral vision, but he doesn't turn his head. 

Something splatters on his thighs again, hotter, almost burning. "What," Yuri groans into the pillow, fingers clenching tightly around the metal ball in his grip. He doesn't know whether to push into the pain or away. Oh—it's wax, just wax. The light flickers and the wax trails over his ass, up his back, across and back again. The pain stings and lingers. Yuri's cock softens and hardens again as he gets used to it. He's surprised when the flow stops and the bed dips beside him.

"Look at you," Otabek says, tugging up Yuri's chin. Kissing the tracks on his cheeks where the tears have dried. "Incredible."

The wax peels off easily enough, layered over the oil. A few hairs are ripped from the tops of Yuri's thighs; he yelps and gets a hard slap there for his trouble. Yuri's covered in come and oil and wax residue, aching and aroused. He bites his lip so hard he tastes copper.

Otabek unchains him from the bed, then, and rolls him over on his back. Yuri blinks at the ceiling and Otabek crawls up the bed, careless of the mess. He's stripped down to boxers and a t-shirt; Yuri wraps his hand in the loose material and grips it tight as Otabek kisses him, an arm flung over Yuri's waist. His kiss is so chaste and gentle that Yuri's chest goes tight. After a minute, he pulls away and offers Yuri the water bottle again. "Do you need something to eat?"

Yuri shakes his head. It's funny how they are when they do this—Otabek able to speak so freely, and Yuri barely at all. After Yuri takes a long drink of water, Otabek pulls him up from the bed. "I have a surprise for you."

Otabek leads him down the stairs, into the den underneath the loft. He unhooks the swing seat from the ceiling and replaces it with a carabiner joining the chain between Yuri's wrists. The height is just enough that Yuri has to stand on tip-toe to keep upright, the baoding ball still in his fingers. He switches the ball to his other hand, carefully; he's getting tired from holding onto it for so long. Otabek turns on the floor lamp on the other side of the room. Something rustles.

"It's new," Otabek says. "I got it just for you."

The first strikes are just little taps, the leather tip of the crop slapping the tender tops of Yuri's thighs. Precise. Otabek lingers there before moving up to Yuri's ass, slowly strengthening his hits before he strikes in earnest. Yuri's back is still hot and raw from the wax, and the muscles in his calves are shaking from trying to keep himself upright. Most of Otabek's hits are weak, but they're relentless, doubling back and forth over sore skin, and he doesn't stop, he doesn't stop. Yuri is gripping the baoding ball so hard. He wants to say, _never stop_ , his mouth is open, but all that he can do is breathe, whimper, under that relentless assault. His back is on fire and he's straining to stay on his feet and—

—it goes on and on until he drops the ball.

Otabek is right there at his side, unhooking him, checking him for injury. "What's wrong?" he says as he unfastens the cuffs, and Yuri shakes his head, just throws his arms around Otabek. "It's okay. It's okay." And they're on the couch somehow, Yuri's arms still around Otabek's neck. He kisses Otabek's jaw and shivers all over. He's so tired, but still zinging like a live wire. Otabek strokes his back, fingers running up and down the length of Yuri's spine. "You did so good, Yura," Otabek says. "My Yura." 

When Yuri can speak, he says, "Take me to bed."

* * *

For once, Yuri's lying in his own bed: no hotel room or borrowed AirBNB, some chunk of space carved out of their perpetually moving lives. He's at home here where Otabek is saying sweet things to him, holding him close. Kissing his face. There's no reason to be afraid or embarrassed. He can cry and drop out of a scene and brat around trying to get off, and Otabek will still be here, relentlessly abiding. Yuri pulls Otabek on top of him and lets him in, all the way into his body, and feels Otabek tremble for the first time this evening. "You," Yuri says, and kisses Otabek's sweet mouth again. What can he say? Their bodies speak a language for which words have nothing.

When Yuri comes he throws his hands backward, one striking the hard plaster of his wall. Otabek finishes a moment later, driving into Yuri with one last thrust before he slumps over, chest flushed, tucking his head under Yuri's chin. His cock slips out of Yuri, dribbling come on Yuri's thigh and his ruined sheets.

The lights downstairs are still on; the light behind the window panes has not yet arrived. Otabek's clothes are scattered in a pile on Yuri's floor underneath the discarded ankle cuffs, the soy candles blown-out and abandoned next to the matches on the bedside table. Otabek himself is yawning, nuzzling Yuri's chest. He had a long flight out this morning from Skate America. Yet he came here and did this, for Yuri. Just thinking about it makes Yuri feel weightless, impossibly treasured and spoiled. 

"Beka," he says, instead of the thing he wants to say.

Otabek says, "I know." His smile is a soft curve on his serious mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> (obviously, Lilia is catsitting)
> 
> I'm [ladyofthelog](http://ladyofthelog.tumblr.com) on tumblr.


End file.
